


Taste

by honeynoir (bracelets)



Series: Fare [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-10
Updated: 2010-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/honeynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth about the food, the dining room, and whether or not the Doctor can keep his own company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to "Fare".

The small dining room wasn’t exactly small, unless you compared it to, say, the dining room in the Palace of Versailles. It was perfectly round. It also heavily resembled a semi-nice restaurant, with round tables, chequered tablecloths, stiff-backed chairs and breadbaskets devoid of bread. Rory sat at the table in the very middle of the room – it was the centre of attention, the other hundred tables fanning out from it in an approximation of a wave-motion. (The Doctor had insisted that, seen from the ceiling, the tables formed his favourite fractal.) If the floor hadn’t been smoky glass and the domed wall and ceiling hadn’t been dotted with lights pulsating in orange and blue, Rory might actually have been able to pretend he was somewhere else.  
   
He had changed into a simple black long-sleeved tee he’d retrieved from the wardrobe the day before and kept in his room (he didn’t quite trust the ship to let him find the wardrobe again). He didn’t change out of his jeans, as he refused to give this dinner more attention than what was absolutely necessary (except for the part directly relating to Amy). The shirt he really wanted to wear – his stagnight shirt, his _own_ shirt – was perhaps not really appropriate for a date with a fiancée. Besides, it would need to be laundered at least a handful times before he’d even touch it again.  
   
It was incredibly weird, this. He should have been married days ago, should have been on his honeymoon, but instead… he was _here_.  
   
The two places at the tiny table were set with the porcelain plates, the red glasses, and the rustic silverware (the spoon to the left side of the plate and the knife and fork to the right, because he had no idea how to set a plate with three equally huge utensils). (As Rory had set the table, the Doctor had bustled in with a great green tureen in one hand and a jug of water in the other. He had plonked both down rather carelessly and then smoothed out the tablecloth and straightened the two candles. Rory had made some ham-fisted comment about the Doctor not needing to make an effort for him and Amy, which had made the Doctor a bit cross –)  
   
Long story short, the Doctor had stridden off to get Amy, and now Rory waited for them, nervously fingering the tablecloth.  
   
He was getting hungry, though the content of the tureen couldn’t have been less inviting. What he had seen of the food hadn’t been impressive, and not even a suggestion of scent could apparently penetrate the tureen lid; Rory had started to wonder whether the Doctor had remembered to put the food in there at all. _Although_ , he thought, _that might be for the best_ …  
   
He could have lifted the lid and checked, of course, but he just wasn’t that curious.  
   
The folding screen that served as a door shifted. The Doctor, back in his elbow patch-jacket, escorted Amy inside. It was really a quite obnoxious entrance: she had his arm and leaned a bit on him, and they walked in step and it looked _classy_. The walk from the screen to the table seemed to last forever to Rory; apparently the slight weaving of the tables hampered them to such a degree that they were forced to walk _incredibly slowly_. And really, did they have to murmur and laugh like that as they approached? Rory pursed his lips, rose, and pulled out Amy’s chair.  
   
She wore a very lovely deep-blue dress, short as usual, along with a pair of tights with some swirly pattern – she was shoeless, and her hair splayed across her shoulders. Rory’s heart ached; he had to stop himself from clutching at his chest (he did that a lot, he found, and it was quite embarrassing). He returned to his seat, as he wouldn’t be surprised if the Doctor simply stole it if he was not physically in it. He waved a bit and smiled as Amy and the Doctor finally arrived at the table.  
   
Amy disengaged her arm from the Doctor’s and sank down on the pulled-out chair. She smiled brilliantly at Rory. “Ready for our date?” she asked, raised a brow and moved her shoulders exaggeratedly in a mock-flirtatious way.  
   
“Oh, I’m so ready,” answered Rory, perhaps a bit too jovially. He might also have punched the air. “And you obviously are!” Privately, he gave a little sigh of relief. This was their date now, and the Doctor could just keep to the kitchen.  
   
The problem was that the Doctor didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to leave. He pulled out the sonic screwdriver, leaned over the tureen and lit the candles (somehow). The lights in the ceiling dimmed.  
   
Amy rolled her eyes and whacked him on the arm. “Show-off.”  
   
The Doctor merely smiled, pocketing the sonic. “Right,” he said. “You’ve got food, water, red-and-white tablecloth, spoon, knife _and_ fork –” he pointed at Rory, an ingenious smile on his face –“and candles! This is a perfect date.”  
   
“Depends on the food, though, doesn’t it?” said Amy, a gleam in her eye.  
   
The Doctor faltered. “Really? I always heard it was the company – Oh, right!” He clasped his hands and smiled to himself, apparently realising she was teasing him. Then his face changed and he became serious, “Do you want me to stay? I can sit over there, if you have any questions about the food…”  
   
Rory glared at him.  
   
The Doctor narrowed his eyes and said, “I should leave, shouldn’t I? Just…” He trailed off, regarding the tureen intently. He leaned close to it and lifted the lid slightly; a puff of steam escaped. He laid the lid down again, apparently satisfied. “You enjoy your food, now,” he said, and ambled away.  
   
“There’s no bread in the breadbasket!” Amy shouted after him. “Bring us bread!”  
   
The Doctor slipped out of the room without making any sign he’d heard her.  
   
Rory felt a little nervous, and, really, could anyone blame him? His fiancée might or might not have changed her mind, he was having dinner consisting of a meal The Other Man had cooked, on board a spaceship slash time machine… surely it wasn’t in any way odd that he’d feel more comfortable at the pub back home than in this odd, pulsating, dimensionally transcendental thing? Amy looked comfortable, though; she could fit in anywhere.  
   
Sure, travelling through time and space was remarkable, it was fantastic, it was brilliant, and he should be incredibly lucky he got to do it. It wasn’t worth losing Amy over, though. If to death or the Doctor…  
   
Amy grabbed the jug and poured them both water. The flutes filled with an almost musical sound. She took a careful sip. “I’m just making sure it _is_ water – this one time he’d put some time machine oil that looked exactly like water in a glass, and… I was sick for hours.”  
   
The candlelight brought out various highlights in her hair, made her eyes glitter.  
   


“You look lovely,” Rory said.  
  
Amy smiled – she might even have blushed a little, but it was hard to tell in the poor lighting. “You know how hard it is to dress when the wardrobe has an opinion? It was like she wanted to keep me there as long as possible.” She unfolded a napkin (they were in the bread basket) and draped it across her lap. “I suspect the Doctor set the kitchen on fire and the TARDIS tried to cover for him.”

   
Rory cleared his throat. _He_ definitely blushed. Whatever for? He should tell her the entire kitchen had gone up in flames and that the Doctor had popped by McDonald’s… but he didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject. “Should we…?” he gestured to the tureen.  
   
“Well, obviously!” She grinned expectantly. “It’s what we’re here for...”  
   
Rory removed the lid. The subtraction of the ugly pot had made wonders for the food; it looked like a pretty decent stew now. It was brownish and lumpy, which was a good start. It smelled good, too, in an unusual way. _Like when he and Amy, back in Leadworth, had brought different food home from the pub and the scents of two meals had mixed in the house for the rest of the night… It smelled like that, like two meals in one, like something impossible._  
   
There were no serving utensils ( _Naturally!_ he thought), so he used his spoon to scoop some food onto both their plates; he only spilled a little, and next to his plate and not Amy’s.  
   
“It smells nice!” Amy looked impressed. “Honestly, I thought he’d chuck us a fork each and leave us with the pot. This is so…”  
   
 _So_ romantic, Rory thought. _Far too romantic for an alien who otherwise didn’t seem to grasp the simplest human custom_.  
   
Amy stared at the helping on her plate. She actually looked nervous. “Here goes…”  
   
Rory sniffed, just a bit. “Where’s your faith in the Doctor?”  
   
“I’ve total faith in him! It’s his taste buds I doubt. I’ve told you he spat out half the contents of my fridge. That first time… when I was seven.”  
   
“Oh, right.” _They had re-enacted that once, to his parents’ horror…_  
   
Amy chose between the utensils, but finally decided on the fork. “What do you think it’ll taste  
like?”  
   
“Mild. Like a mild stew. A mild, alien-tasting stew.” _Well, wasn’t that a rubbish answer_.  
   
“Wouldn’t it be great if it tasted like chicken?” In one swift motion, Amy plunged the fork into the food and then popped it into her mouth.  
   
Rory grabbed his own fork and did the same; best get it over with quickly.  
   
It really was very, _very_ mild. It tasted like… like… like nothing he could compare it to.  
   
Certainly not chicken.  
   
It tasted like nothing, period.  
   
It was just something in his mouth. Just a warm, succulent lump, that… failed to make its presence known.  
   
The smell of it ought to make him taste something, but no…  
   
How could it smell good and taste like nothing?  
   
And the consistency of it! It caused a full-scale war inside his head. It was _just_ mushy enough for him to want to swallow it at once, and also _just_ textured enough to make him want to chew. He could see lumps in the food on the plate, but they simply disintegrated in his mouth.  
He compromised by chewing a few times and then swallowing with a big gulp of water. Sure, it went down. Was it gourmet food? Definitely not.  
   
Then he looked at Amy. She was frowning. She dug her fork into the stew a second time, raised it to mouth-level and then simply stared at it.  
   
 _If only it had tasted like chicken._  “I kind of like it,” he blurted out, for reasons that completely overshot his conscious mind.  
   
Amy looked up at him, resigned. “It’s all right. He’s great at, like, everything else.”  
   
“Yeah, he’s amazing…” Rory really wanted to change the subject. He chose the one closest to his interests. “So… the Doctor said you wanted to talk to me.”  
   
Amy looked blank. “Right. Yeah.”  
   
“So – About what?”  
   
A few long seconds passed, during which Amy put down her fork and remodelled her expression into a less blank one. “I’m glad you’re here.”  
   
This pleased his aching heart, though he would have liked a bit more emotion from her. He wasn’t sure she was entirely sincere, either. “Was it your idea? Inviting me?”  
   
Amy took a breath and picked up the fork again, pushed her food around. She closed her eyes, then opened them with a start a mere moment later. She looked annoyed (and Rory was certain _this_ expression was sincere). “It’s a bit complicated-”  
   
A timid knock cut her off.  
   
Rory clenched his teeth and stared darkly at the folding screen. _Please,_ he thought, _don’t let him stride in with a violin, lute, accordion, or in any other way re-enact a Disney flick._  
   
Well, at least the knocking implied courteousness (and that the Doctor had grasped this particular human custom was promising), so perhaps this would be quick and painless… The Doctor pushed the screen aside, entered – and tripped over his own feet after taking two steps. He didn’t fall – he never seemed to actually _fall_ – but rather continued to stumble towards  
them, navigating among the winding tables in a way that was at the same time uncoordinated and graceful. (Thankfully there was no instrument of any kind, nor a declaration written on rolled up parchment, not even a score of talking animals. Rory started to think there might be some funny ingredient in the food.)  
   
The Doctor managed to stop fully an appropriate distance from the table. ”Look at you, sitting there, eating food,” he said, folded his hands behind his back and smiled in a way that was both proud and expectant.  
   
Rory all too clearly understood that he waited for them to voice their opinions on the food and he desperately wanted to say something positive about it, but the only thing he could come up with described what he could actually _feel_ – and he hardly thought even the Doctor would take his food being “warm” as a compliment.  
   
Amy forwent fake compliments entirely and asked, “So, what did you do for all of the three minutes you were gone?”  
   
The Doctor jerkily shrugged one shoulder. “Began a perfectly normal… diagnostic. Nothing to worry about.”  
   
Amy smirked. “Needed to take care of the fire?”  
   
The Doctor pursed his lips, waited a beat. “There’s no fire.”  
   


“You smell like smoke. You smelled like smoke when you came to get me and you still do.” She lashed out and poke-tickled him in the side. “Just admit it… you set something on fire!” She accentuated every word with a poke. The Doctor didn’t react at all; he looked sturdily sulky.  
  
Rory squirmed in his seat, though. He cleared his throat and beseeched the Doctor with a look.

   
The Doctor thankfully got the point and kindly but firmly grasped Amy’s hand and pushed it away. He made a point of looking at both of them in turn (Rory first). “Anything you need? Anything at all? I’ll get it for you, whatever it may be.”  
   
Rory and Amy exchanged a look. Should they (dare to) say anything?  
   
“It’s chips, right? You want chips with that? They all want chips.” The Doctor had a faraway look in his eye, one that Rory had learnt to associate with a harangue of disjointed mumbling.  
Rory hasted to prevent it. “Maybe… some salt? A pinch?” _Just to make him shut up and leave. Just so he’d go away for a while longer…_  
   
“Salt?” The Doctor looked at him as if this was an incredibly dumb request, but after a mere moment of excessive staring, he visibly relented. “All right, if you say so. _Rory._ ”  
   
“Thanks,” said Rory, with as much dignity as he could muster.  
   
“Doctor.” Amy placed her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms, and then she pinned the Doctor with a stare. “Bread.”  
   
The Doctor seemed to consider her demand. Then he said, “Salt is more important than bread. Bread is just a side dish.”  
   
Amy pouted, just a little. “Really? It’s not that you just don’t like bread?”  
   
The Doctor didn’t answer. He simply spun round and stalked off, quickly. “Right, salt! Amy, don’t let your food get cold. Rory… entertain Amy while she eats.”  
   
They watched the Doctor leave in unspoken mutual agreement, both poised as if to reach for their utensils at any moment.  
   
As soon as the Doctor had left the room, Amy leant back and languidly folded her arms. “You heard him… entertain me, Ror.”  
   
“Entertainment, yes… How?” He decided this would be a bad time to bring up The Kiss that had lost him sleep, despite the oddly soothing humming that permeated his bedroom whenever his thoughts wandered in that direction.  
   
“Well, you’ve got that impression of your boss, and that thing where your eyes go all wonky.”  
   
“Right. Those make me sound incredibly boring.”  
   
Amy gave him a soft-eyed look, which looked especially endearing in the candlelight. Then she slid down a bit in her seat.  
   
And she poked him on low on the shin with a toe, and then she poked him a bit higher, and then a bit higher still. He chuckled and flushed (a lot). “I’m pretty sure this is you entertaining me.”  
   
“As long as you giggle like that it’s mutual…” She placed her foot squarely on his knee.  
   
The folding screen clattered loudly as it was pushed aside again (Rory didn’t even know  
folding screens could clatter). The Doctor stopped just inside the room, the bright orange light in the antechamber silhouetting him. “Looks like I’ve used all the salt to unclog the rectifying rotors,” he shouted. Then he held up something that, in the backlight, looked like a milk bottle. “I found this. It might be salt in here, but it could also be something, uh, a tad poisonous. I’ll just give it a quick scan in the medbay…”  
   
“No, really, don’t,” said Rory, loudly.  
   
“You’re right! Popping down to a salt flat would be just as quick. I’ll just go and do that…”  
   
“No, really!” Rory shouted this time. _Salt flat?_ he thought. _Why not pop down to a shop? Show off._  
   
Amy removed her foot from his knee, sat up straight and shouted, “I want to go to a salt flat!”  
   
“But you’re eating!” the Doctor called back.  
   
Rory half-rose from his chair. “Really, Doctor, we don’t need salt!”  
   
The Doctor froze for a moment, then carefully put down the container and sauntered over to them. Unusually slowly.  
   
“Salt flats…” Amy keened, folding herself across the table (skilfully without upsetting either her plate or the pair of candles). “They’re someplace warm, yeah? Let’s go someplace warm!”  
   
The Doctor didn’t even look at Amy. He didn’t look at Rory either. He stared stonily at the tureen. “Tell me honestly, it’s okay,” he said, in a voice that was a bit soft, but a bit sharp, too.“You didn’t like it.”  
   
Rory made a noise.  
   
Amy rolled her eyes and sat up again. “It was really sweet of you, Doctor, but… cooking might not be your thing. You’ve got a time machine, though, which makes up for… a lot of things. Now to the salt flats!”  
   
The Doctor looked at her, the same stony expression on his face. There were shadows beneath his eyes (though that might have been a trick of the flickering candles). Then, as quick as a flash, he snatched up Amy’s fork, dug it into the heftiest part of her food portion, and put it in his mouth.  
   
Rory felt his jaw go slack. _Amy’s fork… in_ his _mouth…and who did that anyway?_  
   
The Doctor made a very odd face and dropped the fork – it landed with a muted squelch in Amy’s remaining food. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, and swallowed the bite with some difficulty. Then he straightened, obviously completely taken aback, his eyes just a bit deranged. “It tastes like nothing! This is horrible, it’s awful, I’m sorry… How could this have happened, I’m great at making this dish… New mouth, though, can you taste anything?” He pointed at Amy.  
   
She shook her head.  
   
He pointed at Rory. “ _Anything_? At all?”  
   
Rory grimaced and shook his head too.  
   
“I’ve ruined your meal, I –” Some sort of light came into the Doctor’s eyes, pushing the shock away. “Oh, oh, wait, wait… It’s getting there… getting there – and here it is!” He spread his arms and grinned hugely. “Must be the flowers delaying the… well, it’s not half-bad, given I didn’t have the actual ingredients… Wait, _no_ – it’s better than half-bad. It’s _good_. I knew it would be good!”  
   
Amy raised an eyebrow. “What are you on about now? Getting there?”  
   
“Oh, your human taste buds. Expect a delay of, ah, nine minutes from the first bite.”  
   
“What happens nine minutes after the first bite?” asked Rory, a bit confused (and a little scared).  
   
“The taste shows up.”  
   
“The taste. Shows. Up?”  
   
“Yes! See, I knew I couldn’t have regressed that much.”  
   
“So the taste doesn’t show up at first because…” Amy asked, looking definitely sceptical.  
   
“Long story. It’s because of the secret ingredient.”  
   
“And what’s that then?”  
   
“Secret!”  
   
“Is it custard?”  
   
The Doctor smirked.  
   
“Are you kidding?” asked Rory, flapping his hands over his plate. “Food shouldn’t have any delays… That’s – that’s just wrong. You’re sure this isn’t bad for us?”  
   
“If it had been bad for you, don’t you think I would have realised it a long time ago and thrown your plates away… like Frisbees?” He mimicked throwing a Frisbee. “It’s not dangerous, just a bit… weird.”  
   
“Weird how?”  
   
Obviously trying to distract them, the Doctor reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew (with some difficulty) a napkin wrapped around something bulky. He unfolded the napkin and revealed a dozen pieces immensely burnt toast.  
   
“Ah, great!” said Amy, not very enthusiastically, accepted the napkin and dropped it all carelessly into the breadbasket, onto the napkins that already were stacked there.  
   
“It’s bread!” said the Doctor, and looked happy.  
   
Amy looked at him, then at the bread. This would have been a golden opportunity for her to scorn the Doctor a bit, Rory thought, but nothing happened. Instead Amy reached out, took a piece of bread, broke off the least charred corner and popped it into her mouth. She pushed the basket over to Rory.  
   
He chose a slice solely because he was getting really hungry. He wasn’t sure he’d dare eat more of the stew, anyway.  
   
The Doctor folded his hands behind his back again, and then he simply stood there.  
Rory realised he was waiting for the minutes to tick by. It was just impossible to get rid of him. “So…” he said. “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been here?”  
   
“Oh, I’d say you should expect to taste something soon.”  
   
“That’s just what I always want to hear from the chef.”  
   
The Doctor glared.  
   
Amy sighed. “While we’re waiting, Rory can impersonate his boss-” Then she clasped both hands to her mouth. “I can taste it! I can!”  
   
The Doctor took a step closer to her and leant forward expectantly.  
   
“It’s… it’s…”  
   
He leant forward even more.  
   
Her eyes grew round. “’S good! It’s good, Doctor.” She took another bite of food. With the fork he’d used. She didn’t even wipe it off, though she had a napkin in her lap. Right next to her hands.  
   
Rory frowned. Was she joking? Was she making it up for some reason known-only-to-Amy?  
   
The Doctor beamed, clasped his hands, and stared at Amy as if she had done something remarkable.  
   
“I can’t taste anything,” Rory said, “How come she can if we both had the first bite at the same time?”  
   
The Doctor cocked his head. “Rory, your taste buds are just a little slow. Either that or there’s a lot of gunk on your tongue.”  
   
Had Amy and the Doctor planned this together? Were they tricking him? Was this some kind of initiation to the TARDIS? They had eaten at practically the same _second_ , so shouldn’t he taste it too if -  
   
 _Now_ he could taste something. Something sweet, to be precise. And, hold on, something salty (huh), and a little tart… his tongue wanted to curl in on itself in sheer confusion. He had a sudden urge to taste the actual food instead of settling for the echo on his tongue and went for his fork just as Amy had. He took a bite, and this time it was just not a warm lump on his tongue; this time it had taste (it was also stone cold, but who cared?). It was rich, creamy, savoury, spicy (though not overbearingly so, just flavoursome)… There were flavours everywhere. It was good. _Good_. Really. Who’d known?  
   
The Doctor thrust his face _reallyveryclose_ to Rory’s. “You can taste it too.”  
   
Rory nodded, a little taken aback. “It’s… it’s really nice.”  
   
The Doctor grinned slowly, in a way that was much too arrogant to be pleasant, and _still_ Rory wanted to smile back at him.  
   
Amy nudged the Doctor’s arm and smirked. “So, can we order pudding now?”  
   
The Doctor looked profoundly blank. “Pudding?”  
   
“You know… dessert.”  
   
“How would you feel about me saying no?”  
   
“What? You can cook this _delicious_ dish but you can’t do pudding?” She snatched the napkin draped across her lap and carefully wiped the corners of her mouth.  
   
“How about a plate of jammie dodgers? Or jelly babies? I found another crate.”  
   
“How about…chocolate soufflé?”  
  
The Doctor’s eyes widened in a subtly panicked way. “How about Rory makes the pudding?”  
   
“Me?” spluttered Rory. “How does that make sense?”  
   
Amy smirked, and glanced at both of them in turn. “Let’s compromise. Rory can _decide_ the pudding… and the Doctor makes it. Or gets it. Or brings us to it.” She smiled at the Doctor, then turned to Rory and raised her eyebrows in an encouraging way.  
   
Rory really wanted to come up with something witty, and, if possible, something that wouldn’t make the Doctor look at him with those wide, panic-y eyes. But he couldn’t really remember any desserts at all, except… “Sponge cake?” He composed himself and tried a more certain voice. “I really want sponge cake.”  
   
Amy rolled her eyes.  
   
The Doctor looked vaguely relieved. “At least it wasn’t meringue,” he mumbled, and walked away. The distance between the table and the screen seemed to have shrunk, or maybe he just moved really fast (Amy did look likely to shout out additional instructions).  
   
She didn’t call out to the Doctor, though; instead, she levelled a look at Rory. “You should have said, like, pavlova with crème brulée topping, filled with marshmallows and sweets from ten different planets.”  
   
“Why would I say that?”  
   
“Then he would’ve been cross and probably taken us to the biggest pastry shop in the universe to avoid having to make it himself.”  
   
“But I don’t want to go to the biggest pastry shop in the universe. I like it here… sitting here.”  
   
“We could’ve gone in a couple of hours. Time machine…”  
   
They finished their meals – the dish was remarkably different once his taste buds had got used to the ‘secret ingredient’, whatever that could be. It was so _different_ , in a good way. There was just one thing off; the ingredients or the spices or the chemical reactions or whatever it was made him a bit thirsty. He finished his glass of water and poured himself another. “Amy, I really think we should talk…”  
   
Amy pursed her lips. “Yeah, sure, we will. Quit hogging the water.”  
   
He passed the jug to her. “It’s just…” He needed another sip of water before he said what he wanted – no, _had to_ – say. Only he had apparently finished it all again. “Could you hand me the jug?”  
   
When he had finished another glass, he tried to say it. “I have to tell-”  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Amy cut him off. “Water, now. _Water!_ ”  
   
He pushed the jug over to her. “Amy, this thing with the Doctor…”  
   
“We’re out of water.” Amy hefted the empty jug, looking a bit forlorn. “I want more.”  
   
Rory suddenly realised he did, too. He rose and took the jug from Amy. “I’ll go. I know the way to the kitchen.” (Though he couldn’t actually remember seeing a tap there.)  
   
The usual stretch of glass floor later, Rory pushed the screen aside. And practically jumped out of his skin. (He only held onto the handle of the jug because his fingers convulsed around it).  
   
The Doctor stood _just_ on the other side of the screen. Just stood there, his arms behind his back. “Rory!” he said. “You should be in there.”  
   
“You scared me half to death! What are you _doing_?”  
   
The Doctor looked at him for a moment, then: “I’m repairing the antechamber. And making a sponge cake.” He whipped out the sonic screwdriver and pushed a button; it made a little sound and a little light in the general direction of the opposite wall.  
   
Rory would have laughed had his indignation not made him quite choked up. “You’re eavesdropping!” was all he could manage.  
   
“Am not!”  
   


“Yes, you are!”  
  
  
 

“I think I know what I’m doing.”  
   
Rory paused, trying to come up with a sequence of words that would not make the Doctor behave like a four-year-old, but he didn’t have time before the Doctor pushed his face very close to his and said, “The question is – what are you doing?”  
   
Rory raised the jug to eye-level. “We’re out of water.”  
   
The Doctor snatched the jug from him so quickly Rory didn’t even notice it was gone until he saw it in the other man’s hands.  
   
“You’re out of water…” The Doctor held the jug in both hands and peered into it, but what was so very interesting about an empty jug was beyond Rory. Well, if the Doctor wanted to stare at the few drops left in there, he was welcome to.  
   
“Why are you out of water?” the Doctor asked.  
   
“Because we finished what you gave us?”  
   
“That was two point two three litres.”  
   
Rory shrugged. His throat was becoming a bit dry. “The food made us thirsty.”  
   
“It made you thirsty!” The Doctor repeated incredulously, as if that was incredibly rare.  
   
“It’s food. Spicy… You know, ‘food and drink’, they go together?”  
   
“Oh, no, no, no… Did you fight over the jug?”  
   
Rory shrugged. “It was more of a… stiff competition.”  
   
“The crushed mynth must have been converted to its potent form in your – let’s be honest – less than complex systems. I didn’t think about that possibility, sorry. Well, that’s not really true.” He looked sheepish. “I did think about it, and then I forgot… I had too much fun cooking.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Don’t worry, I’ll just mix something in with the pudding. You’ll be right as rain again. Although, obviously, replace that with a simile not involving liquid.”  
   
“What, Doctor? _What_ are you talking about _?_ ”  
   
“Activation. Potentiation, really. It probably won’t be worse than your average sleeping pill.”  
   
It was probably the word ‘sleep’ that caused it; Rory gave a little yawn.  
   
The Doctor’s palm was pressed flat to his forehead in an instant. “Ooh, you can’t wait for pudding,” the Doctor stated. “I’ll have to put something in the water.” He hefted the jug in his left hand and looped his right arm through Rory’s left. “To the kitchen!”  
   
“That was just a normal yawn…”  
   
“Rory Williams… Kitchen. Now.” The door leading to the corridor swung open by itself.  
   
They headed out into the corridor, (somewhat awkwardly, since the Doctor kept insisting Rory should go first and Rory kept insisting he wasn’t tired at all he just wanted to sit down for a moment, and then there was the detail of them being joined at the elbows).  
   
They finally stumbled out, though, Rory first. The corridor seemed a brighter orange than ever, Rory thought. Like midday sunlight, only… decidedly more orange. “It’s not really baby food, is it?” asked Rory. “That stew you gave us?”  
   
“Of course it is.”  
   
“But it was spicy! It had texture! Some… a little.”  
   
“You adapt it to the age. When kids hit 20 they suddenly want to chew. And taste.”  
   
Rory liked to think he would have responded to that had he not been so fascinated by just how much work it was to lift one’s feet and walk.  
   
And here was the kitchen already, just as crowded and dirty as it had been (… a while ago?), though the mess running down the counter seemed to have stopped moving and congealed instead, and the Doctor’s arm was no longer pressed against his and life was a little wobbly because his feet felt weird. There was no obvious sign of a sponge cake being in the making, though granted it was hard to tell in the mess and Rory’s vision was a little blurry, too.  
   
The Doctor must have found a tap or a hose or something capable of leading or storing water _somewhere_ in there, because he placed the jug, now full, on top of an upturned bowl on top of a stack of plates on top of the kitchen island. “Right, here we go! Be prepared to ignore the taste, though.”  
   
“Why? What’re you gonna put in there.” Rory’s tongue felt a little uncooperative, and about as moist as sandpaper.  
   
The Doctor gave a small smile that was entirely un-reassuring. He shoved a hand into a pocket, withdrew a bright blue breath mint, and dropped it into the jug. It sunk slowly, and Rory watched its downward progress with burning eyes and burning throat. The Doctor produced a pair of tongs, carefully inserted them into the jug, and then stirred vigorously until he had sloshed himself and half the island with water. The many protests the glass jug made to such a treatment hurt Rory’s head.  
   
The Doctor, pleased when the breath mint had finally dissolved, picked up the jug and thrust it into Rory’s sluggish hands. “Drink! Though not more than one point four decilitres.”  
   
Rory stared at the slightly rippling surface of the water. He might have imagined it, but it appeared slightly blue. He wanted to drink it so badly, though something felt odd. “Can’t I have a glass?”  
   
“Just drink!”  
   
“Amy’s going to drink from this…”  
   
“Oh, please! You’ve exchanged saliva before. Do you have a cold or something?”  
   
“No… Hold on, is that why you could use her fork?”  
   
The Doctor’s brows rose and his jaw set and he looked likely to explode or jump up and down or something. “Drink!” he shouted. “You’re thirsty!”  
   
That was the last drop. Rory suddenly realised that he was enormously thirsty, really. He raised the (somewhat slippery) jug and took a couple of deep gulps from just next to the spout, and the water was cold and wet and the best drink he’d ever had ever.  
   
And all too soon the Doctor manoeuvred the jug away from his lips and his hands. “Rory… How do you feel now?”  
   
Rory had to think about that for a moment. He also had to wipe his mouth and his chin and a spot on his neck dry. “It’s stopped smelling like smoke in here!”  
   
The Doctor frowned. “Right, it’s worked. You’re fine, back to normal.”  
   
“I am?” Rory did feel _refreshed_ now, and his extremities actually felt like they belonged to him again, but otherwise, he felt no difference.  
   
“You are. Otherwise you would have been asleep by now.” The Doctor gave a self-content smile. Rory had such an urge to point out that all he did was drop a mint into some water, but felt he should be grateful he was not asleep. Even though, if you looked to the technicalities, it was the Doctor’s fault from the start.  
   
Then something else occurred to Rory. “Amy could taste the food before I could… Shouldn’t it affect her quic-”  
   
He never got to finish that question; the Doctor thrust the jug into his hands again, and then they were running up the corridor.  
   
The door into the antechamber was ajar when they arrived; they hurried inside and the Doctor shoved the screen aside highly ungracefully (it made a horrible screech). They peeked into the dining room, and Rory felt a paradoxical urge to be quiet in case Amy was actually asleep.  
   
Amy was slouched very low in her seat. She looked up at the noise, though, and shouted, “One of you bring me a drink, _now_!”  
   
Rory moved forward with the jug, but the Doctor caught him by the elbow and yanked him back into the antechamber.  
   
“She’ll be fine for another few minutes,” the Doctor said, and looked a little bit impressed. “Rory, I meant to say this earlier… Tell her to trust me. One day she might really have to trust me. Tell her I’ll fix everything. It’s not always big space fish or really old queens or Churchill nicking keys.”  
   
“Right, okay, I’ll… try. And…” Rory cradled the jug. “Could you not interrupt us anymore?”  
   
The Doctor searched his face with dark eyes. “Only to bring the pudding”  
   
“Good. I’m going to go in now,” he said. Amy was shouting something about water.  
   
“I’ll bring the pudding.”  
   
Rory had made it exactly halfway to the table when he heard steps behind him. He stopped and half-turned, and there was the Doctor, carrying a plate covered with an upturned bowl. “Here it is!”  
   
“That was really quick…” said Rory, rather baffled. The Doctor gave him a huge smile as he squeezed past, trailing a delicious scent of cake behind him.  
   
Amy looked decidedly anxious, gripping the armrests of her seat. “Water, water, now! What took you _so_ long? I thought I’d go look for you, but then I decided it would be best if I just… stayed… here…” She yawned hugely.  
   
The Doctor placed the plate on the table, then turned and motioned to Rory to hurry it up. Rory did, all but jogging the last few metres, though it was not very easy with a heavy jug of water, and also there were chairs everywhere.  
   
Amy fought her way to a more upright position. “The pudding!” She raised her drowsy eyes to the Doctor, and there was still a bit of a spark in them. “You didn’t pop out and buy it? Like… at the biggest pastry… shop… in the universe?”  
   
“I found flour and sugar in the kitchen – in another kitchen, if you must know. In pretty tins I bought at a flea market in the 1960s, if I remember correctly. They say ‘flour’ and ‘sugar’, it’s very simple.”  
   
“And the eggs?”  
   
“In the refrigerator. Next to the milk you’re always taking the last of.”  
   
Amy regarded him with a look that was half-knowing, half-asleep. “You’ve got a chicken somewhere, haven’t you?”  
   
“You should have some water. Some nice, cold, perfectly-normal-tasting-and-looking water.” He poured it out with a daring tip of the jug, stopping only at the last possible moment. The surface tension was the only thing keeping the water from spilling over.  
   
Amy stared at her glass, quite transfixed. As she tried to work out how to lift it without spilling, the Doctor turned to Rory and blinked. He whispered, “She’s dealing with it much better than you.”  
   
Amy had finally settled for not lifting the glass at all, apparently; she simply leaned forward and slurped. Once the water level was at a manageable level, she grabbed the brittle red flute aggressively and drank deeply from it – until the Doctor casually reached out, snatched it from her, and dumped the remaining water over his shoulder.  
   
“Doctor!” she shouted. “Stop doing that! I had to replace a bit of floor in my room.”  
   
“Hello, Pond!” He placed the empty flute in front of her again.  
   
Amy looked at him shrewdly. “Later, you are so explaining why you just did that. Right now, there’s this sponge cake to think of.”  
   
“I shall remove myself,” the Doctor said, with a pointed glare at Rory. “Again. And have some of that cake before you have more of the water, all right.”  
   
Rory rubbed an eye and sank down in his seat, staring at the few morsels of stew left on his plate. If he’d ever make sense of this date, he’d be lucky.  
   
“So, let’s have pudding.” Amy removed the upturned bowl – and there was indeed a sponge cake under there. It smelled _so good_ , was of a perfect golden colour, and had risen extremely well. (It also came without dessert plates and utensils, but that was only to be expected.)  
   
Amy broke off a piece of it and popped it into her mouth. She chewed it exactly once, and then forcefully spat it out onto the remains of her stew.  
   
“Amy!” Rory exclaimed, at the same time worried and indignant.  
   
She looked up at him and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Five quid says the missing salt’s in the sugar tin.”  
   



End file.
